White Death (2011)

by Jones, Tobias

  ‘You know what happened to the last person who acted as a frontman for Masi Costruzione?’

  ‘I’m nobody’s frontman.’

  ‘Of course you are. You want to know what happened to the last person in your shoes?’

  ‘Go on,’ he said, rolling his eyes like he was indulging me.

  I imitated a pistol with my fingers to make the point. He laughed like I had told another bad joke, but the smile froze on his face when he saw me staring at him.

  ‘He was called Luciano Tosti.’ I told him the outline of the story. ‘I hope you’re really good friends with your so-called investors, because they don’t hesitate to drop bodies once they’ve served their purpose.’

  He tried to laugh again, but his head recoiled backwards so that he was looking at me inquisitively, testing if I was for real. I just nodded. He was still trying to laugh, shaking his head, but he was rattled all right.

  ‘You’re a puppet,’ I said, pushing the point. ‘And the thing about puppets is that the puppeteer can put them in a box whenever they want. The kind of box that gets put in the ground, you with me?’

  ‘My uncle wouldn’t let that happen.’ He said it with a sneer, like his wasn’t the sort of family that could be pushed around.

  ‘Who’s your uncle?’ I asked quietly.

  He muttered some threat under his breath about what his uncle would do to someone like me. He reminded me of one of those boys in the playground who responds to bullies by talking about how tough his father is. I suddenly felt sorry for him. I asked him to repeat it, but he didn’t have the cojones.

  He suddenly looked very young. He seemed to be uncertain about himself and looked down at his feet. I realised I was the bully.

  ‘I didn’t mean to offend you,’ I said.

  He looked at me briefly and then went back to staring at his shoes.

  ‘You just don’t seem like the normal sort of investor. Even burnt to the ground Bragantini’s factory is worth hundreds of thousands. I’m trying to work out how you’ve got that sort of money.’

  ‘There are people who believe in me,’ he said, like buying real estate was nothing more than a question of people’s esteem.

  ‘You can’t buy that sort of place just with belief.’

  ‘No?’ He looked at me and sneered.

  I felt I had lost him. I had rubbed him up the wrong way and there wasn’t much chance now of smoothing his feathers.

  ‘Who’s your uncle?’ I asked again.

  ‘You’ll find out,’ he said to himself.

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  He told me where to go.

  ‘You tell your investors’, I leant on the word so that the sarcasm squeezed out the sides, ‘that Bragantini’s ready to do business.’

  He stared at me, unsure if he had rediscovered his dignity or not.

  I let myself out, walking down the stairs thinking about my next step. I needed to find the boy’s backers and find out the link between them and Moroni.

  I went back to my flat and called Dall’Aglio. I gave him Bruno Santagata’s name and asked if he had anything on him. And anything on his uncle. Dall’Aglio said he would look into it.

  I was woken up by my phone. I tried to answer it but it kept ringing. I tried again, saying ‘hello’ repeatedly, but it kept ringing until I realised I was answering it in my dream. I sat up in the chair, found the phone, and pressed the answer button.

  ‘Castagnetti?’ It was a man’s voice and he sounded angry, like he was blaming me for something.

  ‘Sì.’

  ‘What do you want?’ He shot the question out like he was spitting on the pavement.

  ‘Who is this?’ I asked. I’d had my share of threatening phone calls in the past, but this one sounded more aggrieved than threatening.

  ‘Why are you putting up pictures of me all over the city? Every time I walk past a lamppost it’s like I’m looking in the mirror.’

  ‘Must be hard,’ I said.

  ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

  ‘No joke. A man’s been killed and you’re my only lead.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  I told him it would be better to meet face to face. He agreed with a tone that suggested he was going to bring along a grudge as well. We met in an ugly concrete piazza on the far outskirts of town. It was the kind of no-man’s land that didn’t feel like the city but didn’t feel like the countryside either. There were vents on the floor of the piazza and through them I could see an underground car park.

  It was late by now and there was no one around. I walked towards a dark corner, shaded by the awning of a shop, so that I could see him approach. I saw a short man walk down a staircase opposite and walk towards the centre of the piazza. He looked like an overweight bull-fighter waiting for the bull. He was pacing around looking agitated.

  As I approached him I got a clearer view of his round face. He was chubby, with a large, high forehead and a large, low chin. He had an archipelago of moles across his neck and left cheek, like someone had flicked an ink pen at him. He looked like the man who had bought petrol from the Agip station.

  ‘You’re this Castagnetti?’ he said, looking me up and down like he wasn’t impressed. ‘You better have a good reason for putting my face all over the city. Friends have been calling me all day asking what I’ve done wrong.’

  ‘Good reason,’ I said, motioning with my head to an opening in the corner of the piazza. We walked through it and into a children’s play area. We sat on a rectangular, concrete bench facing the swings.

  ‘Allora?’ he said impatiently.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Pace. Davide Pace.’ He said it without hesitation, like he had nothing to hide.

  ‘You live here?’ I bounced my chin at a window at random.

  ‘Sure. What’s this all about?’

  I was surprised he was so open with me. He had come forward by himself. He had already volunteered what I assumed was his real name and his real address. He had the wronged air of an innocent man.

  ‘You bought two cans of petrol the other night.’

  ‘Sure. So what?’

  ‘Why did you need them?’

  ‘A friend had run out of petrol. He was stranded out on Via Traversetolo at night. He had been trying to hitch a ride for an hour and had given up. So he called me and I did him a favour.’

  ‘Who’s the friend?’

  He looked at me like he was suddenly doubting something. I wasn’t sure if it was himself, his friend or me.

  ‘Allora?’ I pressed him.

  ‘What’s it got to do with you?’ he stalled. ‘I helped out a friend. What do you care?’

  ‘I care what your friend did with the juice. Did you see him put it in the tank?’

  He stared at the ground and shrugged. There seemed to be an opening and I tried to force it.

  ‘That night there was an arson attack on a factory in that part of town. Petrol was poured everywhere and a young man died. All I need to do is talk to your friend to exclude him from my enquiries.’

  He was still staring at the ground, chewing the inside of his cheek. I watched the moles change constellation as his jaw moved up and down.

  ‘Let me take a guess. He’s called Santagata, right?’

  He suddenly looked at me like I had insulted his mother. His eyes slowly dropped to the ground and he nodded. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘That’s my job.’ I wasn’t sure which Santagata it was, but assumed it was Bruno’s uncle. The young nephew was front of house, making an offer to Bragantini, whilst his uncle was out the back pouring petrol through the broken window. ‘How well do you know him?’ I asked.

  He put his chin in the air. ‘We work next to each other at the market. Have stalls side by side so …We watch each other’s stalls, you know, we keep an eye out for each other.’

  ‘What does he sell?’

  ‘Buckets, bins, that sort of thing.’

  ‘And you?’

>   He looked at me with sad eyes, as if he were ashamed to admit what he did. ‘Stationery. You know: paper, cards, wrapping paper. That kind of crap.’

  ‘Been doing it long?’

  He nodded, his eyes glazed over. ‘Two or three years.’

  ‘And that’s how you met Santagata?’

  ‘Sure. We’re always doing each other favours. If I go off to lunch he looks after my stuff. I do the same for him. Have done for years. I know his business as well as I know my own.’

  ‘Maybe not.’

  ‘Antonio wouldn’t be capable of what you’re talking about. It’s not possible.’

  I ignored his defence of his colleague. ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘Antonio? Big man. He’s got a beard, a chest like one of his bins.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘Boh,’ he shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘I thought he was your friend.’

  He turned round and looked at me. ‘Sure. He’s a friend. I just don’t know where he lives. He’s never been here,’ he raised his chin to the back of the concrete piazza, ‘and I’ve never been to his.’

  ‘So where will I find him?’

  He was slumped forward, his elbows resting on his thighs. He looked at me over his shoulder. ‘It’s market day tomorrow.’

  ‘And his stall will be next to yours?’

  He nodded, going back to staring at the floor. His anger seemed to have subsided, leaving in its wake confusion and doubt. His indignation and certainty had gone, and he looked worried.

  ‘If it’s true,’ he was shaking his head as he said it, ‘if it’s true what you say, I didn’t know anything about it. I just thought I was doing him a good turn. I’ve never been in trouble before. I never even ride the bus without a ticket.’

  ‘If you’re all that innocent,’ I leant forward to try and catch his eye, ‘you won’t say anything to him about our conversation this evening.’

  ‘What if he asks why my face is plastered all over the city?’

  ‘Make up a story. Tell him someone was playing a joke. Or someone thought you had stolen some tissues from a tabaccheria. Tell him what you want.’

  He was still shaking his head. He looked like the poor boy at school who couldn’t get anything right. He had even got into trouble for trying to help someone out. I almost felt sorry for him.

  ‘What time does the market open?’

  ‘We’re normally there by six. Set up by six thirty, seven, ready for the morning trade.’

  ‘How’s business?’

  He looked round at me suspiciously, as if it were a trick question. Then he sat back, relieved to talk about something else. ‘It’s OK. This whole economic crisis helps us. People don’t go to the posh shops for their stuff any more. They come to the market to save money. If anything, I’m earning more this year than last.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I said.

  He looked at me suspiciously again, surprised that anyone should take interest in his well-being. ‘Yeah well,’ he said, ‘it’s still not much. It’s not hard for me to earn more than last year.’

  Whilst we were on the subject of money, I nudged him back towards Santagata. ‘Did Santagata pay you back for the juice?’

  ‘He said he would give it to me tomorrow.’

  ‘How much was it?’

  ‘Can’t remember. I’ve got the receipt at home.’

  ‘You mind showing me?’

  He cocked his head sideways, like he was growing tired of me. He half smiled as he sighed, turned the other way, then looked back at me. He stood up and beckoned me to follow him.

  We walked back into the piazza and back up the stairs he had emerged from a few minutes before. It was a concrete spiral staircase, the treads topped by triangles of black rubber. He opened a door on the first floor and held the door open for me.

  The flat was small and dark. It smelt of disinfectant and every surface was shiny and clean. In the front room there was a middle-aged woman slumped on the low sofa watching some quiz show on TV.

  ‘My mother,’ he said by way of introduction. We nodded at each other.

  He told me to wait there whilst he went to get the scontrino. I watched him disappear down a corridor and then looked around the room. There were porcelain miniatures on every flat surface. It looked like the kind of room where a sneeze could prove costly. There were cheap oil paintings of the Alps on the walls.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ the woman said.

  I smiled and stayed where I was. I saw Pace walking back into the room holding two thin, small rectangles of white paper. ‘Ecco,’ he said, passing it to me.

  I looked at them. They were from the same Agip station where Gaia worked. The time was right: just after eleven. The transaction for the first was 5 euros. That must have been for the empty cans. Then just over 11 for the juice.

  ‘Mind if I keep these?’

  ‘I was going to give them to Santagata in the morning.’

  ‘I’ll give them back to you in the morning myself. I’ll pass by.’

  He looked at me and shrugged. The boy did a lot of shrugging, like he let the world boss him about and the only resistance he could offer was to raise his shoulders. He walked me down to the piazza and asked me to take down the pictures of him. I said I would, though I wondered when I would find time. I asked him for Santagata’s phone number and he took out a clunky-looking phone and flicked through it. He passed the phone to me and I wrote down the numbers. I told him I would see him tomorrow morning.

  It was gone midnight by the time I got home. I photocopied the receipt from the petrol station and put the copy in my safe in the bottom drawer of my desk.

  The next morning, the sun was shining and the place was full of people wearing sunglasses. For the first time in months people were sitting at the tables outside, shouting greetings to friends who walked by. I could see two women chatting outside the bakery eating rectangles of focaccia. It was as if the city had come back to life after its winter hibernation.

  The shop door of one bar was wedged open, and the barman was standing there in his apron, talking so much into his phone that he barely had time to drag on his cigarette. There were cyclists zig-zagging between the ground-level cardboard counters of the immigrant retailers. An elegant woman carrying a dog in a check body-warmer was admiring her hair in the reflection of the Mandarina Duck shop, pushing her palm into the back of her bouffant.

  I hadn’t been to the market for months but it was just the same. The usual stalls selling the usual bargains. Triangular knickers were stretched on plastic rings. Hangers rattled under blue tarpaulin. There were carpets and bathmats wrapped in cellophane. A buck-toothed Chinese woman was selling faded duvet covers decorated with cartoon characters. There were buckets of shoes and dusty, plastic flowers with fake dew drops on the fraying petals. The whole area was filled with the amplified patter of a man selling magical cloths and mops. Black men were selling sunglasses from groundsheets. There was a wall of mannequin legs showing off tights and stockings. The prices were written on laminated sheets held onto plywood boards by crocodile clips. It was the kind of market where even the plastic bags looked cheap.

  The customers were mostly the same types of people you saw on the buses: immigrants, pensioners, young parents, students. Those with no disposable income. Sleeping children were left in their pushchairs between the stalls as mothers raced through bins of loose clothes and fingered through CDs in thin, plastic slips.

  I found Pace’s stall selling stationery and picked up the nearest packet of pens. I held it up for him to see, he said ‘three’ and I passed him some coins held in the original receipts. He didn’t say anything else, just nodded at me.

  Next to him was a stall selling bins and buckets. The stall-holder was bear-like: a well-built man in his mid-forties with a beard. The skin on his face was loose, like it had given up the fight against gravity. He had none of the joviality of the other stall-holders. He looked like he was bored, abou
t to fall asleep. But the eyes themselves were alive and alert, like coiled snakes waiting for the right moment. Before he had noticed me, I held up my phone as if searching for reception and took a couple of snaps of him. I turned round and took a couple of Davide Pace for good measure.

  I walked up to Santagata’s stall. ‘Could I have a look at that one?’ I pointed at a blue plastic bucket hanging from a hook.

  He pointed at it to make sure he had understood right. I nodded.

  He took it down. I watched his hairy fingers extend themselves to lift it up off the hook. He changed his grip as he passed it to me and I guessed I had enough prints.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Five,’ he said whilst looking over his stall to check everything was in order.

  I passed him a note and he nodded a goodbye.

  ‘That your van?’ I said, pointing at the white van behind him.

  Another nod.

  ‘I was thinking of getting one like that. Fiat, isn’t it?’

  As he nodded again, his eyelids falling even lower as if in contempt for a stupid question, I walked between the stalls to get a better look. When another customer took his attention, I pretended to be reading a message and took a snap of the number plate. I wandered off with the bucket, holding it by the semicircular handle.

  I was feeling good. The sun was out and I thought I was close to breaking the case. Everything seemed to be making sense.

  Sitting in the bar opposite the marketplace I watched Santagata closely. There was a regular stream of customers coming to buy buckets and bin-liners and the like. He never smiled. I watched him passing over goods and taking money without even seeming to speak to his customers.